


confutatis maledictis

by oceansinmychest



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Asylum
Genre: Biblical Allusions (Abrahamic Religions), Blasphemy, Catholic Guilt, Catholic Imagery, F/F, Femslash, Guilt, Just a mention of Jude's past, Kissing, No Smut, Nuns, One Shot, Poetry, Pre-Possession, Purple Prose, Season/Series 02, Slut shaming cw, Suggestive, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:40:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23588548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Sister Mary Eunice and Sister Jude share a quiet moment together. A little drink, a little food, and a little kiss that could burn you alive.
Relationships: Sister Jude | Judy Martin/Sister Mary Eunice
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	confutatis maledictis

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday to my found family, Claire. We’ve grown up together and I’m so damn proud of the wonderful human being you are today. Love ya, fam-a-lamb. <3 Throwback to us watching Asylum in October and me going "yeah, I’m writing a fic of them in my notes now. *lesbian intent*” You've always encouraged me to pursue my passions. I know for a fact that you'll be successful in all that you do!
> 
> The fic title is taken from one of Mozart’s requiems. Confutatis maledictis hails from old requiem mass. A rough translation of the requiem: "When the accursed have been condemned and doomed to the searing flames, summon me with the saved. Suppliant and prostrate, I entreat you, my heart as spent as ashes, have care for my fate."
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy this.

> “A body, I’ve read, can sustain its own sick burning, its own hell, for hours. It’s the mind. It’s the mind that cannot.”
> 
> _A Violence_ \- Nicole Sealey

Here at Briarcliff, Sister Jude haunts the asylum and rules with an iron fist, her loyalty righteously placed in Monsignor Howard. A reformed sinner, Jude should’ve run this joint by now. Though the times are a-changing, she is a woman who has turned her cheek away from vice. Her Vatican dreams keep her stern yet full of longing.

Blind to Sister Jude’s advances, all this maddening Babylon talk from the Monsignor leads him down the straight and narrow path of self-ordained holiness. By adorning the habit, she has crushed all her foolish dreaming and pining for the Monsignor. Yet, this doesn’t squash the shuddering of her heart in the presence of Sister Mary Eunice.

Enough of King Herod. She’s graced by Mary’s purity.

After the sermon, Sister Mary Eunice trails after her though she dismisses the girl with a brusque wave of her hand. Invites her to her quarters at a far later time considered obscene to prying eyes. No caning commences.

An eager puppy scurries down the vast hall, content to be in the company of her elder. There’s a timid knock on her door before she drawls a derisive “come in.”

At first, Jude strikes a rigid match, only to watch it twist and burn before catching fire to a curled wick.

In walks a sheep desperate for affection and guidance. A nervous smile illuminates her cherubic face. Trembling like a fresh fawn in the meadow, Sister Jude brought her salvation. Lured her under her black wing. How she looks up to this woman - idolizes and reveres her.

Just a trace of her presence is enough to send Jude into the Heavenly Kingdom.

Barefaced, neither woman wears makeup for the sake of maintaining an innocent ruse. Best not to tempt and lead others to sin. Dark robes and austere habits whisper ancient hymns. Conducting themselves with the utmost secrecy, two women find themselves surrounded by archaic relics. Candlelight flickers and snaps. A simple white cloth adorns the wooden desk in the center of the room. Wine, cheese, a shallow bowl of honey, and fruit decorate the table.

“Have yourself a seat,” Jude commands.

Company amongst supposed friends ensues. Cheese and grapes shared together remains an innocent gesture symbolic of love between one’s neighbors. Invoking such silent sacristy, the interpretation of scripture represses two lonely women as much as it teaches compassion and kindness.

Enthroned, her grip on the armrest tightens. Jude sits a little taller, a little higher, and her joints creak in protest. Her old, weathered hands, now forced into reverence, grow restless. Jude clasps her fingers together, clutches them and wishes to hold onto someone else.

They talk about nothing and nothing becomes everything.

Publicly humiliated by those she considered friends, the poor, sweet angel with her quivering pink lips had become everyone’s victim. Here, she sought sanctuary. Often, the shy, little nun feels an imposter in the habit and robes. Blonde bangs sprout from beneath the covering. In her sweet, sniveling innocence, she cannot be branded.

Hands in her lap, Mary Eunice conducts herself with perfect, civil obedience while awaiting further instruction from Jude.

Divine light illuminates her pale, pretty face. From across the table, Judy admires the brilliant folly of youth. Her company brings forth the sweetest feeling. It’s similar to sitting in the greenest of pastures or sitting on one of Boston’s docks, blessed to taste the salty sea in the air.

There’s a strange fire in her stare.

 _Mary Eunice is a small, working miracle,_ Jude muses while observing her in just the right light at just the right angle. Such a venerable act casts aside the impending Apple of Sodom.

In a hushed tone, the cherub dares to speak despite the way she wrings her hands into her wrinkled habit.

“Sister… I’ve… I’ve always looked up to you. I- well, I’m grateful and honored to be in your company!”

Despite an irresistible timidness to her character, Mary Eunice looks up at her as if she’s bigger than Madonna, a saint destined for glory, glory halle-fucking-lujah!

“Now, don’t go worshipping false idols,” Jude replies with a rather conspiratory wink. “Go on and enjoy yourself. Have a bite.”

A blush accentuates those pale cheeks now revitalized. Mary Eunice finds herself wiggling in her seat, ever the willing pupil.

She feels noticed, she feels seen, and it's enough.

In the end, Jude exercises some semblance of self-restraint, tethering composure to her rigid dogma. Always at war with herself, the act of yearning is a well-practiced taboo. After all, she thinks herself a woman of conscience. They both do.

Naught but a soiled dove, she foregoes communion wine in favor of pomegranate juice, just as red and tart. After all, sweets lead to sin. She smacks her lips. Hums a low, jaunty tune that reverberates throughout the marrow of the younger woman’s bones.

They clink their glasses without any need to mention God.

Red and saccharine, the blood of Christ swirls around the tilted silver chalice. When she steals a hearty sip, the wine warms Mary Eunice’s belly and returns the scarlet blush to her cheeks. Bound by the secular chains of duty, this blessed liquid wets their lips but does not whet their appetite.

Veins and wrinkles riddle Jude’s worn hands. Her fingers tap her palm and it’s as if a current of electricity courses through her. Distraught over her desire, traces of sentiment are contained within restrained touch. Catholic guilt be damned, this moment arguably tastes better and is more sacred than the sacrament.

Giving alms, these quiet, little moments are deemed worthy and just between them, this is a slice of heaven.

 _Small miracles,_ Jude thinks with a laugh akin to a scoff.

Mary Eunice pops a cherry into her mouth until her molars threaten to bite down on the seed. Shocked, she spits out the remnants and tries her best to be discrete, crumpling up a napkin in her rattling grip. The meek always manage to make themselves smaller.

To be that pure of heart is a beautiful sight to behold.

Here in this moment, Jude could die of thirst and make her an icon despite where false idolatry stands, but she’s not looking to wash her feet like some Mary Magdalene. A rare grin eases into place. She drinks her juice, a brow quirked in bemusement. Thrown aside good virtue, reverence is paid to the slightest movements, the tiny motions between them. This is their libation ceremony.

Nothing happens though the sensation amounts to everything.

With the plate of cheese half-eaten, the wine half-consumed, pledges of abstinence and vows of chastity seem to vanish in favor of these heathenish delights. There’s no denying the hedonistic aspect, though Jude justifies the indulgence under holy pretenses.

Under some sort of spell, salacious hunger churns Jude’s stomach. Yes, this will certainly be her undoing. The pull of her muscles rivals holy reins drawing her in until she can no longer control herself. She slithers ‘round the table. Trembling, aged hands gently grip Mary Eunice by the jaw, but Sister Jude has always had her by the heart. In loving care, she pops a grape into the younger woman’s mouth. Her finger tracing her bottom lip with great tenderness.

Floating, as if she’s had one too many glasses, it’s a warm, bubbly, comforting feeling. Adoration and devotion are conveyed through a single, conflicted touch.

Ever the portrait of modesty with her cherubic face and slight, elven features, Jude wonders what the young woman wears underneath and curses herself for even pondering such. 

Begging for salvation with those wide, childlike eyes, Mary Eunice wishes to see Jude without her habit. Perhaps this anointment is naught but temptation in disguise.

Angels choke on halos just as Mary Eunice chokes on her damn words. She chews and she swallows like a good girl, submissiveness ingrained into her very nature. When Mary Eunice’s fingers graze her palm, inching up towards her wrist before her touch leaves her altogether, Jude’s breath becomes trapped within her throat.

As if possessed by the holy ghost, the ache in her joints is forgotten. Silk feels like a second skin drumming against her thighs, clinging to her curves beneath the habit. Judy Martin is just an old, used up whore that never feels fulfilled.

Saved from absolution, Mary Eunice wants nothing more than to be held by Jude. She closes her eyes, her lashes fluttering, her lips parted from exalted breath.

“I am sorry, Sister-” Mary Eunice begins, but Jude catches her – stops her by holding a 'ravish me' red, right hand between them.

Standing despite the quake in her thighs, flushed against her body, Mary Eunice yields. A tender embrace begs for more.

Shrouded by revelation, navigating the contours and curves Mary Eunice is a pilgrimage.

“P-please, oh pretty please...” she whimpers and shudders.

She wants so much _more_.

Afraid to let the spirit move her, whispered recantations serve as consolation.

They act as one another’s confessor.

Quoting psalms while stroking her palm, Jude flicks her tongue to lap at the fallen droplets of red, red wine from Mary Eunice’s mouth. Lured into a warm embrace and consumed by a fiery kiss, her wicked tongue coasts along those demure, quivering lips soft and yielding which has her wondering: which infernal canto would each woman be condemned to? 

The answer remains unknown, as she’s preoccupied by the consuming kiss. A petal soft mouth rubs against her while she cups Mary Eunice’s cheeks. She feels the younger woman knot her hands into her habit, rattling faintly against her chest like a steady heartbeat.

_My, how sweet she tastes._

Heaving a great sight, she rests her temple against the younger woman’s profile. Mary Eunice, a rabbit caught in a snare, stills in her somber hold. The girl shames herself by wanting more and commits herself to weakly gripping Sister Jude's wrist, her thumb moving in endless circles.

To venerate and covet such a simple beauty, dear Jude plays a charlatan’s game.

In the golden light, Mary Eunice looks downright repentant. Jude ought to bow and kiss the feet of something, _someone_ , so pure to beg for forgiveness. She’ll burn in hell for this.

Along the River Styx, the fear of eternal damnation lingers in the back of her addled, clouded mind. Once the Salomé of the bar with tarnished judgment, Jude has held back for so long now. Disgusted by the enormity of her desire, she cages herself. Shelters Mary Eunice from the flood of this salacious feeling. None of this can be forgiven.

All the tremors and humors grip them. Maybe it’s the experience of a slight death in the making. Would St. Peter’s gate greet them in desperate dreams? 

After the kiss, Jude holds her close to her chest. They don’t speak. Mary Eunice listens to Mother Superior’s heart race. A part of her wants to flee, to covet rather than bury all of this. It’s enough and yet, it isn’t.

If she prays to Jude, she’ll become canonized and then, like a saint, she’ll cease to exist - burned and flayed and thrust into a reliquary. The thought mortifies Mary Eunice.

So, she buries it. Seals the coffin of our desire shut.

Enacting upon indoctrinated habits, it’s time to close the story – the tragedy – enfolding.

“Sister?” Mary Eunice probes and shatters all pretenses of illusion.

Jude backs away until her tailbone knocks against the desk. Her wrists flick in a desperate waving motion. She ought to wash herself from the blood of innocents.

The possibility of being ruined by such a scandal shakes her. However, her soul laments for some kind of release.

“Get out now and seek penance.”

Crushing guilt compels Jude to cast out that delightful disciple. Watch the church mouse scurry past the doorway. Quick to cry, tears flow freely. The scent of frankincense and the subtle trace of rose water lingers in the room. She _has_ to be hard on the girl, or so she rationalizes. Jesus wept and so did Sister Mary Eunice. The blackest day follows. Tomorrow, the Devil will course right through her.

Unsung lamentations reverberate through her skeleton. She wants to beg and plead for Mary Eunice to stay, but the poor girl coltish in her stumbling storms away and left behind the salty sting of her tears. In Franciscan fear, Judy curses herself for her weakness, for her own wiles. Sister Jude despises that she cannot protect her purity. 

In a room as rich as Johannes Vermeer's _Allegory of the Catholic Faith_ painting, Jude grasps her chest. Her heart thunders maddeningly against her chest. The crucifix behind her encourages Sister Jude to be chaste, to be austere, to repent for the torrent of thoughts that threaten to flood her mind. She swallows, her cheeks spasm and her dry, thick tongue scrapes the roof of her mouth. The habit shrouds her weak, fragile body as she curses her affliction. She holds still in her seat, grieving over what was not acted upon, what should have been, and what never was.

Perspiring along her hairline, she feels feverish. Shivers and chills rack through her. Brimstone nightmares with the overwhelming scent of sulfur promise to haunt. With the ecstasy of Saint Teresa, anguish reverberates within her. She caters to the grand charade of chastity. She wants to put to death her immorality, her impurity, this desire which courses through her veins like wildfire. That crimson slip whispers against her skin. She ought to shed it like a snake and burn it at a stake. Such cruel wanting remains an eternal torment.

Guilt consumes that restless spirit humming and thrumming from within. A denial of chastity, of piety, of every verse misinterpreted and misused, Jude feels crucified, her heart torn in two by duty and faith.

Schooled the catechism, that damned rosary falls and feels heavy against her chest. Tonight, she’ll clutch the damned thing until the beads imprint her sweaty, reddened palms. As a futile last resort, Jude recites the Chaplet of Divine Mercy.

**Author's Note:**

> The painting mentioned: https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/437877. In addition, 'The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa' refers to the sculpture by Bernini.
> 
> Listened to quite a bit of Mozart while writing this, but I also had this jam on repeat: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B59XkKqFVFs


End file.
